


a tough fight worth fighting (how one learns to endure)

by awkwardspiritanimals



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, mentions/brief appearances of the other team members
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-14 08:33:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2184939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkwardspiritanimals/pseuds/awkwardspiritanimals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re just kids, and she picked them. For none of this. For all of this.</p>
<p>So she picks them again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a tough fight worth fighting (how one learns to endure)

_(it’s in spite of these and so many other things that one learns to endure)_

Simmons is sitting next to Fitz’s bed, holding on to one of his hands and flipping through a file May assumes Coulson dropped off for her. She looks so young, and so tired, and she keeps glancing up from her reading every few seconds like she needs to confirm that the warmth under her fingers is really him.

“How is he?” she asks, coming to take the empty chair next to the younger woman. Fitz is still pale, still hooked up to various monitors, but he looks better than he had when she saw him yesterday. Simmons smiles softly.

“Good. He was awake a little while ago, asking after all of you, pouting about the fact that you hadn’t visited yet.”

“Did you explain that it was doctor’s orders, or Trip and Skye would be in here all the time?” May says, and Simmons blushes.

“I did. He pouted some more,” she says, “I promised him that in the next few days I’ll start letting you visit while he’s awake. He wants to make sure he remembers you all,” she adds, swallowing hard.

“Has he been having trouble?” May asks. She remembers Simmons, pale, exhausted, sitting next to his bed, telling story after story to Trip and Skye, like she needed to remember them all in case he didn’t. She remembers that Simmons cried when the first word he had rasped out upon finally waking after eight long days was her name.

She remembers that she picked them.

“Not really, but I still worry. I’ve been making him tell me stories to see if he remembers them.”

“What was today’s?” she asks, and Simmons smiles again.

“The first time we met. I’ve never heard it from his perspective.”

“When did you meet?”

“A couple months into our first year at the Academy. There was an engineering lecture I couldn’t make heads or tails of, and nobody else in class could either, but I noticed that Fitz wasn’t even bothering to pay attention. So I tracked him down and asked him very politely to explain it. And I brought him cookies.

“After that we just sort of followed each other around until Fitz asked me one day if we were friends. When I said yes, he smiled and then went back to his homework without another word. It’ll be ten years at the beginning of November. Fitz didn’t realize that,” she says, and then rushes to add, “Not because he couldn’t remember when we met. Really just because he’s Fitz.”

“It’s a good story,” May says, smiling.

“Fitz tells it better.”

“I’ll have to ask him about it when I get the chance to talk to him.”

“Yeah,” Simmons answers, but May can see tears forming in the corner of her eyes, can feel the younger woman shaking next to her. She pulls her knees up, like she’s trying to hide, and May watches as her hand tightens around Fitz’s fingers. She doesn’t hesitate before reaching over to wrap one arm around her shoulders. She feels so small, and she is so young, and she is trying so hard not to shake herself to pieces, and May picked her.

“He’s going to be alright,” she says, whispering. She supposes that she should say that everything will be alright, but she doesn’t know that; everything could very well be a mess for a long time. But she’s sure of her words. She’s sure of _them_. She picked them, after all.

“I’m not even trained in physical therapy, and who knows how long it will be until Coulson can find someone who is that we can trust and-”

“It doesn’t matter. If anyone can do this, it’s you. You and Fitz. And the rest of us will be here to help however you need us. He’s going to be alright,” she repeats, and Simmons takes three deep breaths before she nods. They sit quietly for a while, Simmons holding Fitz’s hand and May’s arm around her shoulders.

“May?” Simmons whispers eventually, “Could you maybe stay for a little bit?”

“Of course.”

She picked them. She’ll pick them again.

\------------

“Simmons says you got in touch with my mum?” Fitz asks, and May nods.

“Coulson is working on finding a way to bring her here.”

“Good,” he says, concentrating on snapping two Legos together. His left arm is still in a cast, so he hasn’t gotten a chance to really start rehabbing it, but the grip in his right hand is improving; he’s braced his creation against the cast and is carefully adding pieces with his right, fingers pinched together around the small blocks.

“You’d like my mum,” Fitz says, sorting through the Legos in front of him.

“Yeah?”

“Well, everybody likes my mum,” he says it with pride in his voice, “But you remind me of her a lot.” May has heard Fitz talk about his mother, and it’s a weighty compliment.

“I look forward to getting the chance,” she says, and it’s not insincere in the slightest, but there’s a part of her that is almost scared at the idea of meeting his mother. She’s scared that the woman will look her in the eye and know, in that way that mothers have, that she is the reason her son is struggling to one-handedly snap together Legos.

With his tongue caught between his teeth and his curls falling over his forehead, he looks so incredibly young as he works; he is so incredibly young, but she reminds herself that he is far from helpless, even with all his current struggles. He’s saved the lives of everyone on the team in some way or another, and he’s saved hers directly, with three shots and tears on his face. She wonders if he blames her for that the way she does; she wonders if he can ever forgive her for the thing he did in her name.

“I never did get a chance to thank you for saving my life,” she says, and he looks puzzled for a moment before he responds.

“Garrett?” he asks, and May nods, “It’s nothing. You’re on my team. You’re my friend,” he says, and the last part is clearly just as much a question as it is a statement.

Fitz stares at the blocks in front of him as he says it, and May is puzzled for a moment before she remembers Simmons’ story, before she remembers that he had asked if they were friends after weeks of spending time together. She wonders how many people he’s asked that question; she wonders how many have answered in the affirmative.

She waits until he glances back up at her before she speaks again, “Thank you,” and May hopes he understands everything she means when she says that, that Fitz understands that she’s answering his question.

He smiles, “You’re welcome.” They sit in silence for awhile, May picking at the food she’d brought with her and Fitz continuing to add to his Lego structure.

“I should probably head back. Coulson might need me for something,” she says eventually, when he pauses for a moment to consider his work.

“Coulson always needs you,” Fitz quips, but there’s a sincerity in his eyes when he says it that makes her smile. “Here,” he says, and he offers her the collection of colored blocks he’s constructed with one shaking hand and a bashful smile.

“I can’t take your Legos, Fitz,” she says, and he shrugs.

“You really can. Simmons keeps bringing me more, I don’t know where she’s getting them all. If I don’t get some of them out of here somehow, I’ll be buried in them in a week. Trip already has two, and Skye has like five or six, so I figured you should have at least one.” He shrugs again, and she reaches out to take it from him.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Are you going to be alright on your own for a bit? Want me to send Simmons or one of the others down?” she asks, and he shakes his head.

“Trip is supposed to come down and watch Top Gear with me in about fifteen minutes.”

“You boys and your cars. Is he bringing you lunch?” she asks, and Fitz nods with a grin, “Alright, I’ll see you later then.”

“Thanks,” he says, just as she reaches the door, and she turns back towards him, “For sitting with me. I’m sure you have more important things to do.”

“It’s not a problem at all, Fitz. What are friends for?” She smiles at him and he grins back.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

 

_(i see the light shining in the upstairs room every night/it’s the brightest metaphor for courage i’ve seen for some decades)_

Everyone has been asleep for hours, but there’s light pouring out of the room that Simmons has set up for Fitz to do PT in. May reaches around the doorframe to flick it off, ready to continue on her rounds, when Fitz’s voice surprises her.

"I’m getting better at this, but I don’t think I’m quite ready to try it in the dark," he says, and she can hear how out of breath he is. She turns the light on again, sees him at the parallel bars, chest heaving, sweaty, smiling slightly.

"Shouldn’t you be sleeping?" she asks, crossing the room to stand at the end of the bars he’s walking towards, small step after small step. Slowly but surely.

"Can’t sleep. Wanted to work. Almost got it."

"Simmons will be upset with you."

"She’s been upset with me before," he says, shrugging as he reaches the end, taking deep breaths as he prepares to turn. May reaches out unconsciously, bracketing his hips with her hands like she’s seen Simmons do, supporting the movement of his body.

"How many have you done?"

"Twelve, down and back."

She forgets how young he looks when he smiles. She forgets how amazing those little victories can feel. They’ve been living for so long in a world where big victories were the only answer. Some days the frustration at his body’s current limitations flows out of him, but right now he seems entirely full of hope.

"Three more, and then bed."

"Eight more," he barters.

"Five."

"Eight," he repeats, and she realizes he’s not really negotiating.

"Seven and I won’t tell Simmons."

"Eight," he says, and there’s a smile on his face and a challenge in his eyes.

"Fine." Little victories are important too, and she follows him down the bars to help him turn.

Fitz completes the next three fairly easily, breathing hard but looking almost comfortable, moving up and down the bars; there’s a long pause before he begins sixteen, and another before seventeen, and by eighteen he’s stopping to rest every few steps. She watches him carefully as he manages nineteen and the first half of twenty, moving one step at a time, looking like he’s waiting for the ground to drop out from under him.

He looks miles away from her at the other end of the bars, and May can only imagine how great the distance seems to him. Sweat rolls down his face, but he can’t remove his hands from the bars to wipe it away; she can see his arms shaking and his shirt is soaked through and his chest is heaving and the look of determination on his face is fierce. He takes a small step forward, hands gliding along the bars, grimacing in pain.

“Fitz,” May says, and he meets her eyes, teeth clenched, “You can stop.”

“I can do this.” His words are broken apart by gasps for air, but he takes another step.

“You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

“I can do this,” he repeats. Two more steps with no break in between, and he looks proud of himself for a moment before the determination settles back across his features. Another step.

She realizes that right now he doesn’t need someone to feel sorry for him or baby him or tell him that it’s alright that he can’t do something; he has all of those people and more, day in and day out. But right now, in this room in the middle of the night, he just needs someone who believes in him, despite his shaking arms and heaving chest and slow legs, believes him when he says he can do it and doesn’t try to remind him that it’s okay if he can’t. In the morning, he will need those people, but halfway down the bars, using every bit of strength he has just to keep moving, he needs someone to believe he can.

May can be that person for him; she has, after all, been that person before. She nods, and he smiles again as he continues to struggle forward, small step by small step. It takes a while, and there are several moments when she has to hold herself carefully still to keep from rushing forward when he wavers, but eventually he’s standing in front of her, grinning as widely as she’s ever seen him.

“I can do it,” he repeats one more time, and she nods.

“Good job,” she says, and surprises herself a little by reaching up to pat his cheek, which is the least sweaty part of him. Her hand still comes away rather damp.

“Er, sorry about that. There should be a towel over on my chair. I brought it along to clean up, but I don’t think it’s going to do me much good. I need a shower,” he says, and May nods, moving over to retrieve the towel and bring his wheelchair over to him. She knows he dislikes it, but there’s no chance he’ll make it back to his room on his legs. He collapses gratefully once she’s maneuvered it behind him, and doesn’t even complain when she starts to push, snapping the light off as she steps out into the hallway.

When they reach his room, May can see Simmons, curled up on the edge of Fitz’s hospital bed. She leans down to whisper to him, “How did you manage to sneak out?”

“I’m very sneaky,” Fitz replies with a smile, but it’s tinged with concern as he looks at Simmons, “She’s been wearing herself out, between looking after me and doing what Coulson needs her to; she’s usually out like a light the minute she lies down, and I’m strong enough now to get myself off the bed and down the hall in the chair. I figured…” he trails off, swallowing hard, “I figured that if I did some work on my own, I might get better faster, and she could get some actual rest.”

“You know that none of us mind helping you, least of all Simmons?” she says, and he nods, staring down at his hands.

“I know. I want to work though. I want to get better.” She wonders if he notices that he glances at Simmons when he says that.

“And you will,” she says, like it’s a fact. After watching him tonight, there’s no other way to say it. “You need help getting to the shower?”

“No, I think I can manage it. I just need to wash off enough that I can sleep comfortably. I’ll take a real one in the morning, when I’ve got some strength back.”

“Be careful. Good night.”

“Night.”

His voice stops her halfway down the hallway, and she turns to look at him, just out the door of his room, towel over his shoulders, shower caddy on his lap, looking nervous. May raises her eyebrows at him.

“See you tomorrow night?” Fitz asks, and he looks so young and hopeful that he’s practically glowing with it.

“See you then. Don’t let Simmons catch you,” she answers with a slight smile, and he grins again.

“Never.” He thumps one wheel against the doorframe while trying to wheel himself back into the room; she assumes he’ll be caught within the week, but he’s still smiling as he maneuvers himself around and through the door.

She waits, listening for the sound of the shower starting and then changing from water-against-wall to water-against-skin, and smiles as she returns to her rounds. Little victories.

\------------

May is surprised to hear the thump of the punching bag; Coulson is in his office, and she’d just passed Skye and Trip sitting in the lounge, watching some movie. She’s even more surprised when she rounds the corner to see Simmons standing by the slightly swinging bag, shaking her hand and wincing. She blushes when she sees May.

“Sorry. I just, I was frustrated and I really needed to punch something just then, and this seemed like a good thing to punch. I’ve never felt that urge before,” Simmons says, sounding half embarrassed and half curious. May considers her for a moment before moving forward to stand behind the bag.

“Don’t bend your thumb inside your fist, that’s a good way to break fingers,” she says, holding her own hand up to demonstrate the proper form; Simmons dutifully matches her, concentrating on  getting it exactly right. “Good. Now pull your shoulder back, no, like this,” she says, reaching to move her shoulder where she wants it, “You want to use your whole body when you throw a punch, not just your arms. Like a spring.”

“A system,” Simmons says, and May smiles as she moves to hold the bag.

“Exactly. Show me what you got,” she says, and the younger woman nods before punching, “Keep your hands up, there you go.”

They continue for about fifteen minutes, May reaching out to correct Simmons’ technique occasionally, but otherwise she lets her work out her frustrations in silence, holding the bag securely. When she finally lets her hands drop, Simmons is sweaty and disheveled but beaming.

“That was actually quite fun,” she says, nearly chirping, and May rolls her eyes good-naturedly.

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself. You should probably shower and get to bed. You’ve been working hard lately.”

Simmons looks like she might protest, and she assumes it will be something about how everyone has been working hard lately, but in the end she holds her tongue and nods, “Thank you, May. For teaching me.”

“Not a problem. Good night.”

“Good night,” she says with a nod of her head, pushing her hair away from her face and turning to go back to Fitz’s room. May doesn’t think much about the incident as she continues her rounds, checking to see if Fitz has tried to sneak down to the PT room, making sure everything is secure; she understands the release provided by a long session with the heavy bag, and assumes that Simmons has worked out the necessary frustration.

When she enters the kitchen the next morning shortly before six, she’s surprised to see Simmons sitting at the counter, three mugs of tea in front of her, reading some sort of medical journal and drinking from one of the mugs. May wonders if the younger woman will ever get out of the habit of making two cups of tea in the morning.

“Morning,” she says, and Simmons smiles at her.

“Good morning. Made you tea.” She pushes the third cup across the counter towards her with one of the most hopeful looks May has ever seen.

“Thank you.” She goes to retrieve the honey from the fridge before turning back towards Simmons, “Trouble sleeping?”

“No. Well,” she starts, then seems to think better of it, “No. I actually had a favor I needed to ask.”

“At,” May glances at the wall clock, “5:53 in the morning?”

“Yes, actually. I was- I wanted to learn more of what you showed me yesterday,” she stares at her tea, “I don’t want to run away anymore.”

She waits until Simmons looks up before speaking, “Sometimes running away is the only option.”

“I’m tired of it being my only option.”

May almost shakes her head in disbelief. She wants to remind Simmons that she threw herself out of a plane and in front of a grenade because she thought it would save the people she loved. That she refused to let Skye’s fragile life slip through her fingers again and again, that she hauled Fitz up through nearly a hundred feet of water at incredible risk to herself.

She wants to tell her that in her life she has met very few people, if any, that refuse to run away with quite the quiet ferocity with which Jemma Simmons does.

But that’s not what she needs to hear, not right now. Someday, May plans on telling her all of those things and more, but it’s not what she needs in this moment. Right now, Simmons is watching her best friend relearn how to walk and there is a stubborn part of her brain that is convinced it is her fault. Neither she nor Fitz have made clear to anyone exactly what happened at the bottom of the ocean, but May has seen her wake up in the middle of the night enough times, gasping for air and choking on Fitz’s name, to know just how much it still haunts her. She doesn’t want to be told how brave she has been; she is looking for something that might help her pick up what she sees as the scattered pieces of her courage.

“Alright,” May says, and Simmons lights up.

“Really?”

“Of course.”

“Fantastic,” she says, smiling. May adds the honey to her tea before glancing up to see the younger woman looking at her expectantly.

“Tea first. Then meditation. Then punching things.”

“Oh, right, of course. And kicking things?”

May smiles, “And kicking things.”

 

_(approaching the impossible with casual courage)_

It’s been a series of small steps to get to this point over the past few months, literally. Fitz has been working as much as possible in the PT room, with May and Simmons and Trip and anyone else who was willing to help him, and he’s been using his cane diligently, as much as he complains about it. A few weeks ago, Simmons had finally cleared him to start trying to walk unsupported, at least small distances. He’s spent more time than ever between the parallel bars lately, able to catch himself or be caught, but today is different.

Fitz stands at one end of the bars with Simmons at the other, at least a step past the end of the metal apparatus. May’s not hiding, but she doesn’t make any attempt to let them know she’s standing in the doorway. This is Fitz’s moment, their moment; she’s glad she got to see the moments leading up to it.

“Ready?” Simmons asks, and he nods, looking determined, his hands slowly leaving the bars. He takes one shaky step forward, his eyes never leaving hers, and then another. The third one is slower, and Simmons takes a step forward. He shakes his head, still watching her.

“I can do this, Jemma,” he says, and she hesitates for a moment before moving back. Fitz smiles quickly before the determination returns. May can see Simmons holding her breath as he manages two more steps. He’s closer to the end than the beginning. His eyes are still fixed on Simmons.

“You can rest if you need to,” she points out, and May smiles. She has seen the look in his eyes enough times to know that Fitz won’t stop, won't rest his hands against the bars.

“I can do this,” he says again, although the words are a bit breathless as he moves forward one more step. Another, and another, and another, this one just past the end of the bars, and then he is standing in front of Simmons and his gaze has still not left her face. His chest is heaving and his smile is as large as she’s has ever seen it.

“Told you,” he says, smirking and Simmons laughs. It’s a good sound.

“You were right. I think this probably deserves a reward,” she responds, and May notices that her gaze has dropped slightly and she’s not looking at Fitz’s eyes anymore.

“Cookies?” he says, excited, and she realizes the poor boy has no idea what is about to happen. He has tilted his head down slightly to look at her, but Simmons has to close most of the distance between their heights to press her lips against his.

“Oh,” Fitz says, smiling, dazed when she pulls away. Simmons grins up at him.

“I’m so proud of you, Fitz.”

“That’s probably what my mum said the first time I learned how to do this,” he says, and then winces. Simmons shakes her head; May rolls her eyes in the doorway.

“Please don’t compare me to your mum right now.”

“Yeah, sorry. It just sort of slipped out. Under other circumstances, I think it would have been quite humorous.”

“You’re my best friend,” Simmons whispers, and Fitz’s smile grows. His hands search out her waist to pull her closer.

“You’re my best friend, too,” he whispers back into the small space between them. During their first kiss, the only point of contact had been the kiss itself, but this time Fitz has spread his fingers at her waist and Simmons has one hand tugging on his collar to bring him closer while the other threads itself through the curls at the back of his neck. They break apart breathless; Fitz wobbles slightly where he stands.

“I think I need to sit down,” he says, still grinning. May wonders if he’ll ever stop.

Simmons raises her eyebrows at him, “Really? After just that? I can’t imagine what’s going to happen when I really kiss you.”

“I’m looking forward to finding out,” Fitz says with a smirk, though both of them are blushing fairly bright red. Simmons moves to retrieve his cane, and May slips out of the doorway. She’ll congratulate Fitz later. There will be more moments; she’s happy to leave this one to them.

 

_(it’s been a tough fight worth fighting/as we all drive along betting on another day)_

She’s not sure how she failed to notice it until now, the way Fitz’s shirts pull too tight across his shoulders but hang too loose at the waist, how tight he has his belt to hold up his sagging jeans. It’s probably less obvious in the lab, or when he’s doing PT in loose t-shirts and sweats, but May still feels like she should have noticed before now.

Fitz hadn’t wanted to stop working to go do his daily rehab, but Simmons had insisted, sending May with him to make sure he actually did the exercises so that she could keep working on their project, and he hadn’t changed in an effort to save himself time.

“Fitz,” she calls to get his attention, and he looks up at her, “You need new clothes.”

“Er, yeah. With the being bedridden and then all the rehab where I had to use my arms so much, I’ve sort of, um, changed shape” he says, blushing, and May laughs at his description.

“We should take you shopping.”

“What?”

“You heard me. You’re almost done with your project for the day, right? We’ll go into town this afternoon and see if we can’t find you some that fit better.”

“That sounds good. It’s just that, um,” Fitz says, and then trails off into mumbling she can’t hear.

“What?”

“Simmons usually helps me pick out a lot of my clothes,” he says, all in one breath, blushing darker, and May smiles.

“Bring her along. Meet me at two by the SUV.”

\----------

Fitzsimmons are waiting patiently for her when she heads to the garage, holding hands and looking slightly nervous. Simmons climbs into the back as she buckles herself into the driver’s seat and Fitz stands in between the passenger side door and the one that Simmons had just climbed through, looking like a deer in the headlights.

May rolls her eyes, “Go ahead and sit with Simmons.” He smiles at her before sliding in next to the other scientist. They make an effort to include her in the conversation and she appreciates it, answering their questions and listening to them chatter as she drives them to the nearest town with a department store.

When they reach the store, she and Simmons lead the way through the sections, Fitz trailing behind; he’s improved remarkably well over the past months, but he’s still slightly slow, especially after he’s been working in the lab all day. May knows he has the collapsible cane he designed and built with the team’s help, but he doesn’t like to use it unless he absolutely has to. Besides, he seems perfectly happy to follow them, nodding or shaking his head or making some comment about the clothes that Simmons holds up. Half of the things he vetoes end up in the cart anyway.

“You might like them once you try them on,” she says over her shoulder when Fitz grumbles.

“Fine,” he mumbles back, rolling his eyes, but he doesn’t seem to actually mind all that much.

“I think that’s enough to be getting on with,” Simmons says eventually, handing Fitz a small pile from the collection they’ve accumulated in the cart and leading the way towards the dressing rooms, “Do you need any help?” she asks him, blushing. The two of them blush rather a lot, May is beginning to notice, especially since Fitz is also faintly pink.

“I think I can handle it.”

“Okay. Good. We’ll wait here then,” she says, and he nods before disappearing around the corner.

The two women stand quietly, waiting for Fitz to call for their help or to emerge from the dressing room. After a few minutes, May becomes aware of the fact that Simmons keeps glancing over at something to their left; it doesn’t take her long to notice the bright yellow sundress that has apparently caught the younger woman’s attention.

“That’s pretty. You should try it on,” she says, and Simmons shakes her head.

“No. It’s- we’re here for Fitz.” She stares down at her hands as she speaks, and it is May’s turn to shake her head in slight exasperation.

“Simmons.” The younger woman looks up at her. “Go try on the dress.” Simmons nods, smiling slightly, and goes to retrieve it. She’s been gone a few minutes when Fitz emerges from his dressing room, left hand stuffed into the pocket of his jeans while his right fiddles with the loose ends of his tie.

“Where’s Simmons?”

“She went to try something on. What’s up?”

“I, um, wasn’t exactly great at ties before everything happened, and now,” he says, looking mildly embarrassed but pulling his hand from his pocket. She can see the fine tremors shaking his fingers; they’ve gotten much less frequent and much smaller as he’s improved, but she knows they still bother him. “I was going to have Simmons help.”

“Come here,” May says, and when he’s close enough she catches the ends of his tie to knot it neatly.

Fitz looks a little shocked as she straightens it,” That was fast.”

“I’m very good at knots,” she shrugs, and smiles when she glances over his shoulder, “Look,” she says, and watches as Fitz turns and his jaw drops. Simmons smiles at them nervously, biting her lower lip, hands held behind her back.

“What do you think?” she asks, not looking at May at all.

“Very nice,” she responds before turning to Fitz with a smirk; she’s not sure she has ever seen a boy look quite as lovestruck as Leopold Fitz does at that moment.

“You’re gorgeous, Jem,” he whispers, and May’s smirk grows. Even with the change in their relationship, Fitz rarely calls her anything but Simmons in front of the team; it seems to be some unspoken rule they’ve set up for themselves.

“Really?”

Fitz laughs softly, stepping close enough that he can just rest the tips of his fingers at her waist, “Yes, really.”

“You look quite nice yourself. Did you do this?” Her fingers drift to the knot of his tie.

“May did. My hand was shaking.”

“Thank you,” Simmons says, leaning around Fitz, and May nods.

“Do you have more stuff you need to try on, Fitz? There’s quite a pile there,” she asks.

“Do I have to try on everything? Can’t we just guess on some of the stuff?”

“No,” says Simmons, and Fitz groans, but turns back to retreat into the dressing room.

\------------

When they get back, Fitz heads to his room to sort through the bags of clothes and Simmons putters around the lab. May watches her for a few minutes before she speaks.

“Here,” she says, sliding the keys to the SUV across the table to her. Simmons looks up at her, confused, “Take Fitz out on a real date tonight. Wear your dress, make him wear one of his new outfits. You two have spent too much time cooped up around here.

“We couldn’t possibly-”

“You can. I’ll handle Coulson or anyone else who says anything. Go. Have fun.”

Simmons worries at her bottom lip for a few seconds before nodding, “Thank you.” She stares at the keys in her hand before leaving the lab, presumably to go tell Fitz. May smiles.

\-----------

She hears a thump, just as she’s about to round the corner, and May freezes, peering carefully around the wall. Her tension dispels almost immediately at what she sees; Fitzsimmons kissing very enthusiastically, Fitz’s back pressed against the wall and Simmons pressed against his front. She should move on, come back to check the hallway later, leave them be. Instead, she clears her throat and smirks when they spring apart, Simmons rushing to pull her hands out from underneath Fitz’s shirt as he scrambles to adjust the strap of her dress back into place on her shoulder. They’re both blushing rather spectacularly.

“I take it the date went well?” she asks with a quirked eyebrow, and she really can’t help herself. The two scientists impossibly manage to get redder.

“Hello, May,” Simmons finally manages to get out, “Yes, it was very nice. Thank you.”

“Good. I’ll leave you two alone so I can finish my rounds,” she says, and moves to pass by them in the hallway. Simmons, possibly without thinking, presses herself against Fitz to give her room; Fitz bites his bottom lip and tips his head back against the wall, looking like he is very carefully not doing anything even as simple as breathing.

“Have a nice night. See you tomorrow morning, Simmons.”

“Good night.”

May waits until she’s at least a few steps past them before she says anything else, “Don’t be up too late.” The temptation to look back is far too great, and she glances over her shoulder to see Fitz resting his head against Simmons’ shoulder while Simmons blushes an incredible shade of red.

She smiles again. They really do blush quite a bit.

 

_(to endure means simply to gut-it-out/and the worse the odds/the more enjoyable the victory)_

It’s a party, at least according to Trip and Skye, who have procured an impressive amount of junk food and herded the rest of the team into the lounge. They’re dancing now, spinning each other around and giggling, while Coulson and Simmons sit at the large table with the snacks, talking about something. Fitz is next to her on the couch with a plate, glancing between his dancing teammates, Simmons, and the food he’s picking at.

May rolls her eyes, “You should go ask her to dance.”

Fitz shakes his head, “She’s busy.”

“I suppose. Mostly what she’s busy doing is trying to listen to whatever Coulson is saying to her while staring at you whenever you look away. She wants you to ask her to dance.”

“Really?” he asks, lighting up for a moment before he brings his gaze down to his legs. He rarely even uses his cane anymore, but she knows that long days still bother him. He doesn’t like depending on the team so much, especially with all his improvement, and she would scold him if he hadn’t worked so hard at being better at accepting help, if she thought he would ever really be able to stop himself from feeling that way just a tiny bit.

“Go. Dance. Have fun,” she says, pulling his plate out of his hand and giving him a slight push when he gets to his feet. Simmons watches him make his way across the room, and smiles when he holds out his hand nervously. May reaches over to where Skye’s iPod is docked, making sure that the next few songs up are slow ones, before turning back to watch them with a smile.

It’s still there sometimes when she looks at them, the burning guilt that everything that they have gone through is her fault, even when they look as happy as they do now. But she has tried to remind herself, especially recently, that attempting to take all the blame on herself does not give them enough credit; yes, she chose them, but they made a choice too. Maybe she knew that Simmons would come because she could tell, from endless requests across her desks and the stories she hears about her work, that she wanted more than where she was, and that Fitz would follow Simmons wherever no matter how reluctant he was, but they still chose to come. She could see in those parts of them pieces of herself, and that’s how she knew they would come when she chose them, but they still chose to prove her right, even if they didn’t know it.

Simmons jumped out of a plane and in front of a grenade, and Fitz stood up to Garrett and gave away his last breath, and they’ve both done a hundred other things large and small, choosing to be brave in the face of terror they never could have imagined. May had chosen them for none of that, but they had faced all of it, and come out the other side of it together, as they always had. They sway slowly in the middle of the room, smiling at each other, and she smiles at them, at their resilience and their bravery and their happiness.

There’s a couple files that Coulson needs her to look over, and neither Trip nor Skye had been brave enough to try to tell her not to work during the ‘party.’ She’s a few pages into one when someone clears their throat and draws her attention; she glances up to see Simmons dancing with Trip, Skye having disappeared somewhere, presumably to get more food, and Fitz standing in front of her, nervously rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Yes?”

“Er, I was wondering… I was thinking that you might… I just-”

“Fitz. Spit it out.”

“I thought you might want to dance,” he says, all in one breath, staring a hole in the couch over her shoulder. She smiles at him, his leg bouncing like he’s about to run, and laughs, holding out her hand to him.

“Sure,” she says, and he looks half surprised and half relieved. She laughs again and follows him out to the cleared space in the middle of the room, rolling her eyes at the grins on Simmons and Trip’s faces. Fitz keeps himself carefully stiff as they sway.

“Relax. I’m not going to suddenly throw you across the room.”

“I don’t doubt for a second that you could do that.”

“Well, you’re not going to find out for sure tonight. Relax.”

“Right,” he responds, and he does, eventually, after a few more reminders. A new song starts before he speaks again.

“I wanted to say thank you. For everything you’ve done for me, and Simmons, and the rest of the team, over the past few months. It means a lot.” Fitz is utterly serious and sincere when he says it, and she smiles at him.

“Any time.”

She picked them once. She’ll gladly pick them as many times as she needs to.

**Author's Note:**

> The italics and the title are all from Charles Bukowski poems, with the occasional slight tweak. I’m generally apathetic about his poetry (I don’t particularly like or dislike most of his stuff), but occasionally he writes a line about the beauty of survival that feels like a punch in the chest. Sometimes survival is ugly as sin, and sometimes it’s the only thing left, and sometimes it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever known, and that’s a theme I like to write about, and I thought it was particularly relevant to this relationship after the events of the end of last season.


End file.
